


Violent Ways

by frumious_bandersnatch



Category: Hell on Wheels (TV)
Genre: Andersonville, Character Study, Duality, Flashbacks, Gen, PTSD, The Elusive Eden, timestamp to s4e1 ‘The Elusive Eden’
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27960656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frumious_bandersnatch/pseuds/frumious_bandersnatch
Summary: A timestamp for season four, episode one, ‘The Elusive Eden’, focusing on Thor Gundersen.
Relationships: Thor Gundersen & Cullen Bohannon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Violent Ways

**Author's Note:**

> A fic that’s not Supernatural???? From me? Why on earth wou- Christopher Heyerdahl? Yeah, that’ll do it.

He twitched and jerked, hands balling into fists and upper lip curling into a grimace. The bed was too small, but the room was pristine and clean and a rebirth. Not a tent, not a caboose, a room in a house built by a community. His community, his flock, his children. Brothers and sisters. Joseph Dutson, Reverend, widowmaker, father of a dead child. So quickly was that becoming him. He did not need to keep a shotgun by the bed, didn’t need to look over his shoulder and scheme. He still did. Still observed every detail of every man and woman in the fort, read them, assessed threat and motivation and all the many possibilities. He supposed he would never give up that aspect of Thor Gundersen. 

Hands fisted in his hair, pulling, halfway between sleep and dream and  _ lord, Heavenly Father, save me _ . It was a haze and he was right there, right back there all at once. It was no wonder he liked to keep things clean, because sometimes he could still feel the lice and the mosquitoes and the chiggers, an infestation on and under his skin, could still see the maggots fat and white and the only well fed things there burrowing their way through flesh. Friends. People who had worked with, under him, fought for the Union’s cause.

If he let his tongue sit in his mouth, let the saliva build for too long sometimes he could taste the blood. Taste sinew, taste  _ man _ .

Step a foot over the deadline and the guards would shoot. Oh...he was tempted. So damn tempted to wade through the sea of bodies and mud and shit and let himself end. Others were less resilient. Ran, fell dead, disposed of.

He was shaking, muscles-  _ full, nourished, whole _ tensing and un-tensing, twitching, whimpers clawing their way out of his parched throat. He never regained all the weight. Never was as broad or as filled out as he had been going in. Had always been a slender man, would have had to eat like a king.

He finally jerked up, gasping for air and clawing at his neck (at scars and burns just barely covered by his beard) and letting out a choked sob. Blue eyes rolled back in his head and he groaned, slowly, slowly calming himself. Long breaths, slow, shoulders and chest heaving. Today was an important day. He stared out the window, eyes taking on their normal cold clarity as he smiled. Retribution; they were bringing in  _ Bohannon _ . What a fortunate turn. Unexpected, impossible, but he couldn’t wait to see the man’s face.eyes drifted down, trailed over the edge of the wall and tops of buildings and down to the freshly prepared gallows. 

He stood, stretched and sighed, running cold hands over his bare chest before he slowly dressed himself. All wool, supremely comfortable and warm. A little loose but not enough to look ill fitting. He trapped the small comb on the room’s desk between his forefinger and thumb, brought it back through his hair and stared at himself in the mirror. He’d already gone grey, gone white, and it still felt so recent that he’d been head of security on the railroad. His smile spread his lips to bare teeth. That wasn’t him anymore.

He put on his hat and drew it down, low, and as the sun rose high in the sky he stepped out into the town’s square with a self satisfied smile. And when his eyes caught Cullen’s for the first time and he saw pupils dilate, brows raised in surprise and confusion, he felt victory. 

So similar, the both of them. So cyclical the story. Once again, he held Cullen Bohannon’s life in his hands, could, if he wanted, see it dangling at the end of a noose. Perhaps, next time, if there ever was one, it would be he who felt the tug of a rope around his neck. 

He thought it may claim both of them. Violent men so often die in violent ways.


End file.
